Masks: Reflections of the Soul
by NiniriAZ
Summary: Having faked her own death, Elisabeth Braddock takes a look at the people she thought she knew.


Cold, they'd called her, aloof, and remote from others. They didn't know just what it was that she had lived through, or that she kept herself private, because it was the way she retained herself, true and whole. Safe.  
  
There were those she thought of fondly: Remy, whose kiss was sweeter than that of any angel, and who had waltzed with her in Vienna, and tangoed in Paris before either of them had heard of the "X-men", when he was simply a gentleman thief and she an aristocratic spy, thrilling in the chase, the game as played between cat and mouse, a game of wits played between equals, and the bittersweet regret for what could have been  
  
Hank, whom she'd never realized had harbored such an unrequited love for her, beginning when he was a grad student and an Avenger and she a top model, whose 'face' was merely a mask for the "Jane Bond" she had always wanted to be. He might call himself a "Beast", but she had seen the beauty of his spirit and knew it to be that of one who truly deserved to be called an angelÉthe perfect counter for her Beauty.  
  
Bishop, who'd simply wished he'd taken the time to know her better. He respected her as a warrior, and an espionage agent, but regretted so many things he wished he could've said before she'd supposedly died Ñshe'd seen the regrets in his eyes in the Astral plane before she'd appeared to have been abducted, and there were things she'd wished she'd said to him, as well. He was a better man than he gave himself credit for being, and she knew he would persevere. He always didÑbut he was always alone.  
  
Sage. Tessa. A woman with no name to call her own, molding herself into roles scripted by others, wearing masks and guarding herself even more zealously than Elisabeth, but the Otherworlder had seen what scars the savant bore in her soul. Scars as vivid as those glyphs that marked their faces. Behind the masks was one she could almost call a sister. The price they both had paid by living for others and not for themselves.  
  
And then Elisabeth thought of those who'd professed to have loved her: one who professed to be an angel, but had fallen long ago, whose demands had driven a wedge between them. Yet whose selfishness still scarred her face with a brand as red as blood, the fallen angel whose sweet words were like poison.   
  
He had wanted what Jean and Scott hadÉor at least the illusion. The mask that had been stripped away so recently. The blind man torn between fire and ice, trying to be so perfect, and failing in his humanity. She looked at the child- woman that the fallen angel proclaimed to love without peer, feeling no anger, no bitterness, Elisabeth looked beyond the mask of innocence and virtue, peeling away the skin to see what lay beneath...  
  
Was it a lady or a lion that hid behind the door to the girl's soul? Only time would reveal those things to the fallen angel, for it was not her place to say, simply to watch and learn from her mistakes and those of others.  
  
And then there was Savitar, given flesh and form that had warmed her heart a little, after the sting of the poison tongue of the fallen angel. He had passion, and fire that drew one in like a butterfly to a lamp, and though she'd warmed herself by that fire, and sought truth in the light of the sun, she realized that she had been fortunateÉand she couldn't help but wonder if the golden girl realized how quickly feathers burn, and that sunlight could only banish the darkness for so long.  
  
The hollow girl, whose soul could bear no more masks, had fought for her, and then walked away from the battle when she realized that the script was better left unfinishedÉpeeling away the layers of paint and time to find herself, and wonder if that too, was a mask. She wished the hollow girl good fortune, so that she might find fulfillment to banish the emptiness, peace to sooth the battle she had waged within.  
  
And then she considered the rider of storms, whose eyes were as cold and blue as the arctic, yet had for a brief moment been warmed by the sun and surf of the south seas, and the rider of waves, whose walkabout had wiped out on the genetic tide of truth. The rider was blown like a leaf in the tempest of her own making, returning to port to weather the worst of the storm.  
  
And then she turned back to that harbor, watching the blind man, torn between fire and ice; the woman whose magnetism made her repulsive, whose mask lay crumbled at her feet. The men who had been opposite sides of the same coin, both worn, nicked and tarnished from too much abuse and too little peace, all the others who seemed to revolve around the stage, playing their parts as if on cue.  
  
She walked amongst the masks, watching the drama unfold. And she, who had once been a puppet, had cut her strings and moved freely. So close to her destiny, but just far enough away to know that her journey had only just begun. So much more than mortal, but not quite divine, she walked between worlds, unbound by the strings of reality. Blind, yet able to See with perfect clarity.  
  
Elisabeth was unsure of the twists the tale would take, but it certainly promised to be interesting in the telling, and she already knew how it would end. 


End file.
